


Today Could Have Been The End

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking & Talking, First Kiss, First Time, Gentleness, Hand Jobs, M/M, Nervousness, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 22:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19094104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: My take on the missing scene at the end of Good Omens that I know a lot of other authors have also been keen to write - the temptation of writing the night after the failed apocalypse has been too much for us all to resist!Temporarily homeless and not knowing that the book shop will be reinstated by the morning, Aziraphale takes Crowley up on his offer of a bed for the night, because he doesn't know where else to go. Crowley doesn't want to sleep, but Aziraphale coaxes him into bed - innocently enough at first, but things inevitably happen between two lost and frightened souls - an angel and a demon who thoroughly love one another.





	Today Could Have Been The End

It had never occurred before to Crowley, that prior to this day - this _evening_ \- this end to an extremely _long_ day - Crowley had never really seen Aziraphale asleep. He'd seen him many things before, and though he gave some thought to what those things were, he couldn't get beyond the fact that Aziraphale was always soft, kind and sweet, and _usually_ petulant and highly irritating. Crowley's nose wrinkled as he smirked, thinking about it. He'd never watched him sleep but, unsurprisingly, and unimaginatively, he looked _angelic_ ; he didn't make much of a noise, unlike when he was awake and always in a flap - he simply rested upon the pillows, very still, breathing through his nose.

Crowley, on the other hand, was wide awake - he had no intentions of going to sleep - and a bottle of scotch whisky was rather seeing to it that he didn't. He was perched on the windowsill, beside the bed, an awkward pose as he squashed himself into the alcove, one leg dangling and the other knee brought up to his chin. He resembled a gargoyle looking out onto the city, which was ironic because that was rather what he _was_. He knew he was fashionable and he knew he was cool but, as a demon, he was ugly to the core - the only one who had ever found him beautiful in any way was Aziraphale. His affections, his line of sight, was torn between his two great loves - the angel and the city - Aziraphale behind him, the city of London before him.

The city was a mess.

London was finally safe, thanks to their good selves and a few others - notably one very well-raised Antichrist who'd had the sense to listen to his friends and not destroy the entire world - _always_ a good thing. But the streets were trashed; opportunists had looted the empty shops, bricks had been thrown through windows, litter and debris filled the pavements - what the underworld had started, mankind would always finish off - such situations always brought out the worst in human beings. But now, it was silent, and Crowley was thankful he didn't live in a ground-floor flat. Little did he know that all would return to normal, or _better_ , tomorrow, and the bookshop would be reinstated.

It was three in the morning, and he'd done nothing but stare out, into the emptiness - into the bleakness, alone with his thoughts - of which he'd had _many_. But, how ever many thoughts he may have had, he wouldn't have been able to recall a single one in the morning, because nothing had really mattered until--

"Crowley?" a small voice called out to the silhouette in the window bay.

"Hmm?" he replied; he was drunk and he was tired.

"What ever are you doing, dear?"

"Do you think..." Crowley slurred, swinging the nigh-on empty bottle, "...we could have done _more?_ Do you think we could have _saved_ them?"

"Was saving the world not enough?" Aziraphale asked, when what he really wanted to say was, "What does it matter to a _demon?_ " - but - as he already knew the answer that question, he thought it better not to express it. He knew that, deep down, Crowley really did have a heart, and it wasn't all black.

"People have _died_ , Aziraphale, for this silly war. _Good_ people. Evil wrongdoing? I was all for it when it was a bit of a laugh. _But..._ I should never have gotten involved with those bastards from the start. Should never have let myself fall. And _god_ , now my head _will_ be on the block for this."

"Come to bed," came a whisper.

"Nah. The sofa's in the other room. I need to keep watch over you. Something might happen."

"I didn't _say_ come to sofa," Aziraphale clarified. "I said come to _bed_." There was a swallowing noise in the darkness. "I need you." He didn't mean to say that. Oh... _flip -_ _why_ did he say that?

The bottle, luckily the lid having being replaced, toppled over as it was kicked by the now standing Crowley, who just simply lingered there for a minute, not knowing how to continue. This - whatever it was - had been there, an undercurrent running through their relationship since, almost very literally, the beginning of time. Having been a demon living in various highly sinful times - for example, Soho for much of the 20th century - it wouldn't have shocked anyone to hear that Crowley had had his fair share of encounters with both male and female lovers. But he'd only once ever been in love. It just so happened to have lasted 6,000 years. He soon decided that he wouldn't need inviting twice.

He shifted through the air at supersonic speed and found himself pressed up against Aziraphale in bed and under the sheets. "Oh!" the angel exclaimed, so startled that he scooted over to the edge of the bed. "I... I--" he stammered, "I meant there was plenty of _room_."

"Certainly is, Angel," Crowley hissed, beckoning Aziraphale back towards him, _tempting_ him like the snake tempting Eve - only, on this occasion, Crowley's serpentine eyes were full of nothing but adoration for his partner. "Plenty of room for _all sorts_."

"I... I don't know much about all of that," his voice nervously trembled. "Would I... _like_ it?"

"I'll make sure that you _do_ ," Crowley replied, tenderly reaching out.

"Lust is a sin," the statement was said so quietly that Aziraphale almost hoped that its meaning would vanish into non-existence.

"But so is gluttony--"

"--And I'm very fond of crepes," Aziraphale started to reason with himself.

"And pride?" Crowley added, knowingly.

"I... I... _am_ a fan of good tailoring. And looking my best," the angel nodded, beginning to come round. "I... uh... see how you have a _point_ \- I'm just not sure it's for m--" He quickly found himself cut off as a long, winding tongue worked its way into his ear, and then around it, tickling underneath the lobe. And he gasped, bucked slightly, and Crowley knew he was making progress at long last. Angel wasn't just going to _like_ having sex; he was going to _love_ it - _more_ than crepes, chocolate sauce and all - more than French _bloody_ patisserie. "Oh, dear god... That feels heavenly."

"We'll have no mention of the god almighty in this bed - capiche? I'm a demon - alright? So, _none_ of that," Crowley grinned, wickedly - how else - before pulling the covers back, revealing Aziraphale in his pyjamas, who was sporting a blush on the bits of bare skin he could see, barely visible in the moonlight - oh, how he _hoped_ that he would see _more_ of him in moments to come.

He was reminded of earlier on in the evening, when the pair had been undressing in the bedroom: Aziraphale, ever coy, despite the fact that he was using his angelic powers to put the striped nightwear on in an _instant_ , and not actually undressing at _all_ , he still - nonetheless - made Crowley turn around. Crowley, on the other hand, chose to undress like a human, in front of his friend; he pulled the zipper down on black jeans with enough force to rip them, tugged them to the ground and tossed them aside - Aziraphale had looked bashful when presented with the sight of Crowley's boxers, patterned with devil smiley faces.

And now that Crowley was faced with Aziraphale's pyjama top once again, hungrily, he placed his hands either side of it, ragging the garment apart, buttons springing off and falling into the folds of the bedsheets. He'd gone too far, too fast; Aziraphale had shrieked like a frightened nun who'd just been flashed by a dirty old man in an overcoat. "Sorry, Angel," he murmured, into his neck, dotting the skin with tiny apologetic kisses, "I just want it so _much_." Crowley pulled back momentarily to see that his lover had tensed, become slightly taut from his shoulders downwards. He smiled softly and drew a finger from the top of Aziraphale's collar bone to his belly, magically re-sewing the clothing button by button, so that - this time - he could undo it properly - with _care._

It hadn't taken long to unfasten, and Crowley couldn't work out why he'd become so suddenly impatient after waiting several _millennia_ to finally make love to Aziraphale. The blonde-haired man was now considerably calmer, and seemed to enjoy having the demon's hands roam the smooth and perfect skin of his chest - how could Crowley have expected less of an _angel?_ His skin was as blemish-free as the day he'd been born, or - at least - the day he had been placed upon this earth. Crowley began to straddle him now, both hands placed to his front, as he leaned forward and began to tease the celestial being with his mouth once again, hot and devilish saliva marking every part of him. He heard a whimper.

"Is this too much for you?" Crowley asked, in his drawl.

"No... No," Aziraphale replied, but Crowley knew different - Aziraphale's breathing was all over the place.

"I can wait," he was quick to tell him. "Angel, I can wait. I've waited 6000 years for this, and I can wait 6000 more if I have to."

"But we haven't got the time, now - have we? Today could have been the end... And I can't _wait_ until the end," Aziraphale blurted, outstretching his arms, placing his hands on either side of Crowley's head and, fingers gently grasping auburn hair, pulled him forward into a deep kiss. It was a few seconds but, for the pair of them, it seemed to last a lifetime - which, considering their lives, was an _awfully_ long time. When he let the demon go, it was obvious - even in this dim light - that there was a wetness to his eyes. It would have broken Crowley's heart to have called the pools of water tears. "Be gentle with me," Aziraphale pleaded, as he reached forward to his mate, toying with the fabric of his t-shirt - the one he had been wearing under his clothes all day - because Aziraphale didn't know what to _do_ with himself.

Crowley carefully dismounted and, without words, rolled the angel onto his side. Aziraphale felt a tad worried about what was to happen when he felt the hardness of Crowley's arousal pressing into his backside, but he needn't have worried - for Crowley had little interest in his own pleasure right now. He grabbed Aziraphale heartily and cuddled him from behind, humming words of encouragement into his ear. "V'always loved you, you know - right from the beginning," he mumbled, and Aziraphale clutched at his hand and squeezed tightly. It wasn't as if Aziraphale was any stranger to the notion of _love_ and what it stood for - in title, he _was_ a being of the greater good - it was his _vocation_ to spread a message of love and peace. But to truly _feel_ loved in this way was not something Aziraphale had ever imagined he might experience. It was a _marvel_.

His human body was showing its appreciation too. That particular part of his anatomy was not something he'd really paid much attention to - it was just a functional piece of bodily apparatus and that was the end of it, as far as he was concerned. Like his _nose_ . But now, most unusually, it was throbbing with a desire to be touched, and tenting his pyjama bottoms. Crowley's hand slipped out from beneath Aziraphale's hand and meandered under the elasticated waistband of his trousers, fingers coiling tightly around his erect cock. Aziraphale moaned. It was, without doubt, the first time Crowley had ever heard such a sound from his friend - when Aziraphale moaned, it was usually, perhaps, a complaint about wine being corked, oysters being past their best, or other such pointless nonsense to the point where Crowley had drowned it out in his mind. Never _ever_ a moan like this one.

So, therefore, Crowley was hardly astonished by the revelation that Aziraphale would not last long. He was both delighted and turned on in equal measure as he felt the man in his grasp begin to quake, as he slid his hand - self lubricating with warm jelly - oh how _good_ it was to so easily conjure what one _wanted_ and _needed_ \- over and over, up and down the angel's prick. He came with an elongated shudder, and writhed desperately within Crowley's arms - the satisfied reaction of a man who had possibly not orgasmed for a hundred years or more. In other words, he'd really - _really_ \- needed it. Aziraphale had almost forgotten all about Armegeddon, and the Antichrist, and the burnt-down bookshop. All that was in his head were Crowley's soothing whispers, about how loved he was - about how happy he made Crowley, whether they did this again or not.

After a short while, one other realisation popped into his head: his pyjamas were terribly damp and sticky. But darling Crowley had thought of everything. After sucking his fingers clean - well, he was a horny _devil_ , after _all_ \- the demon brushed his hand over the front of Aziraphale's nether regions and performed one last bit of witchcraft for this evening, cleaning the angel up so that he wasn't uncomfortable sleeping in his wet nightwear. "I'm getting softer by the day," Crowley thought to himself, silently, with a small shake of the head. But he didn't care too much whether he was - just so long as Aziraphale felt contented, and not _too_ scared by tonight's liaison. He _certainly_ didn't seem to mind Crowley's long pale arms wrapped around his torso, like snakes ensnaring him, boa constrictors for biceps. He rather liked this idea of being ensnared by Crowley and his wiles - encompassed, swaddled in his affections.

"Oh, it _does_ make you so very..." Aziraphale broke off to yawn, "...tired, _doesn't_ it?"

"Mmmhhm?" a voice behind him sluggishly enquired.

"Sex," he spelled it out, and the letters sounded funny in his mouth - he couldn't believe he was saying it. "Oh my," he tittered, before breaking into a full blown giggle.

There was no answer. And then there was a big snore. So, actually, there _was_ an answer - Crowley _must_ have agreed, because the demon had nodded off. For a second, Aziraphale felt sad, and somewhat alone, with nobody to talk to and no way of coming down from this high with the one that he loved, but Crowley was completely exhausted by the day's proceedings and he accepted that. He felt safe in the knowledge that, when he woke up, Crowley's arms would still be holding him tight. And, though it's hard to say how one could top the saving of the world, he optimistically felt that tomorrow would be a better day. Before falling to sleep, he would also have time to mull over the last prophecy of Agnes Nutter - the one about choosing their faces wisely - he was _sure_ there was something in it.

Until then, he sighed with a smile, fondly remembering a line from one of his favourite ever plays - Shakespeare's Hamlet, which was - funnily enough - brought to popularity in the 1600's by one of Crowley's miracles: "The Devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape." He snickered to himself, still feeling so thoroughly _wicked_ for having done all of this - even if being wicked _was_ Crowley's job. That it _did_ , my friend - that it _did_.


End file.
